


the best damn thing (that your eyes have ever seen)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, FEEDING ON FLIRTATIOUS EXCHANGES AND SNARKY TEASING, Fluff and Humor, Meet-Cute, also i have devolved into a FLUFF MONSTER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know, it's kind of weird, but uh, here’s the thing: my ex just walked in with another girl, and I really don't feel like wandering around without some kind of buffer in case they spot me and decide it'd be a great idea to come say hey. So."</p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke pulls the best damn pick up line ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best damn thing (that your eyes have ever seen)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tumblr post](http://thedailylaughs.tumblr.com/post/73171061656/k-elizabeth-t-this-boy-at-target-asked-if-i):
> 
>  
> 
> _This boy at Target asked if I would hold his hand because his ex girlfriend just walked in with a new guy, so naturally I felt bad and held his hand while strolling around Target for a bit. Then it donned on me, with no other couple in sight, that was the best damn pick up line ever pulled._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Best Damn Thing' by Avril fucking Lavigne because i am a piece of trash)

 

 

 

“Hey.”

 

Bellamy looks up, squinting through his unruly curls. Sheesh, he really hates it when his sister’s right about him needing to do something about his bangs _‘because hello, I’d really like my nerdy brother back instead of fucking Zooey Deschanel’_.

 

He blinks at the blonde girl in front of him, regarding him with unruffled calm in an oversized denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up in chunky sections to her forearms.

 

She clears her throat. “Can I ask you for a favour?”

 

He blinks again, not quite sure what else to do. Familiarity churns violently in his gut, but his mind is drawing a complete blank. “I’m— uh, sorry, do I—”

 

“Oh, no.” She’s already shaking her head, strands of blonde escaping the sections pinned to the back of her head. She gives him a small smile, crossing her arms over her middle with a shrug. “You don’t know me.”

 

“Oh. Good.” He grimaces inwardly at her raised brow. “I mean, good that I didn’t, you know, forget you or something. Not that I would. Forget you. You’re, um…” He clamps his lips together, inhaling sharply. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

 

Her smile stretches wider. “I was wondering if I could ask you for a huge favour? You don’t have to say yes or anything, I just thought you looked like my best shot.”

 

He suddenly notices how the steady confidence of her delivery is offset by the sudden bout of nervous fidgeting descending over her: her shoulders start to shrug in slight, jerky motions; her weight shifts from one foot to the other.

 

“Yeah, sure, what’s up?” he says, instantly closing the large hardcover he’d been poring over. He’d like to think he’s a helpful guy. Too helpful, Octavia would probably scoff. A complete sucker, as Miller has so kindly pointed out.

 

(It certainly doesn’t help that the source of this particular request is, quite plainly, pretty damn beautiful — all blonde waves and blue eyes and beat-up Vans that somehow go perfectly with the light dress she’s got on under the denim shirt with its tails knotted around her waist.)

 

She clears her throat again, and he just manages to spot her fingers picking at the elbows of her large denim shirt. “Do you mind walking around with me for a bit? The store, I mean.”

 

He stares at her. He’d been expecting _‘I can’t reach the top shelf’_ or _‘do you have a loyalty card I can borrow for the discount’_ , not quite _… this._ “Uh, walk around, like—”

 

She smiles again, nodding like they’ve just shared a private joke. “I know, it’s kind of weird, but uh—” she takes a step toward him and he automatically leans closer, “—here’s the thing: my ex just walked in with another girl, and I _really_ don’t feel like wandering around without some kind of buffer in case they spot me and decide it’d be a great idea to come say hey. So.”

 

“Oh,” he says, blinking again. “Uh, yeah, okay. Let’s… uh, walk.” He returns her grateful grin with a small smile, slotting the hardcover tome back into its place on the shelf before turning back to fall into step with her.

 

They exchange smiles, equal parts politeness, amusement and shyness meshing together on both their faces.

 

“I’m Clarke, by the way,” she announces suddenly, thrusting her right hand out at him.

 

He takes it automatically, fingers curling over her smaller palm firmly. “Bellamy.”

 

“Thanks, Bellamy,” she says, grinning brightly at him before retracting her hand. “Nice to know there are still bookstore regulars out there willing to help a girl out.”

 

He does a double take, mouth falling open. “Oh, yeah, _that’s_ where I know you from!” At her raised brow — she’s _really_ good at that, he notes — he laughs, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’ve seen you before. I think. Around the store. You’re in the art section a lot.”

 

“And I’m guessing you pay rent to basically live in the history section?” she replies, eyes dancing with teasing mirth. His face flushes, and he ducks down slightly in a belated attempt to hide it.

 

“I’m in grad school, actually,” he tells her, sneaking another glance at her as they wander into the classics section. “Getting my Ph.D. in—”

 

“Let me guess,” the girl— _Clarke_ cuts in dryly, reaching out to trace a finger across the spine of an Austen paperback. “Theatre.”

 

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Nailed it.”

 

“So I’m actually helping you out here, aren’t I?” she asks, turning to grin at him playfully. “Giving you the chance of a lifetime for some real world practice.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you’re really doing me a solid here,” he replies readily, flashing a smile at her before letting his gaze aimlessly skim over the organised titles as they slowly navigate the shelves.

 

He involuntarily jumps a little when he suddenly feels a small hand in his, cool fingers closing around his in a way that somehow feels both tentative and decisive.

 

“You don’t mind, do you?” He looks up to sharp blue eyes trained on him, searching his face uncertainly. “Just thought it’d help with, you know, warding off unwanted encounters.”

 

He gives Clarke’s hand a light squeeze, adjusting his grip to accommodate her more comfortably. “No,” he says, smiling down at her. “I don’t mind.”

 

She looks away, still smiling. They squeeze past a trio of giggling girls in the young adults section, Bellamy tugging on her hand slightly to pull her to the side.

 

“So, uh,” he says after clearing his throat, looking around warily as they round the end of the shelf into the next aisle. “What’s the deal with this ex, anyway? Classic men-are-jerks story?”

 

She hums, her free hand coming up to pull the strap of her bag further up her shoulder. “Not quite.”

 

The over-large sleeve of her shirt shifts up and down her arm with the motion, and he wonders with prickling discomfort if the shirt belongs to said ex.

 

“Not quite the classic version?” he forces himself to ask in as neutral a tone as he can muster, barely sparing a glance at the rows of endless vampire and werewolf romance novels.

 

She pauses to glance over a sci-fi series, one of those where sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds are mature enough to make life-and-death decisions but apparently not quite enough to handle love triangles. “Not quite a man, actually.”

 

He blinks, his grip on her hand tightening reflexively. “Oh.”

 

She sighs, replacing the book on the shelf before turning to him. “Honestly, Lexa and I weren’t together all that long — but I really did love her. And she loved me too, I think.”

 

He looks at her, waiting patiently.

 

“So it kind of sucked when she ended the relationship to take a job out of town,” Clarke continues, turning to resume their slow stroll through the aisles. He follows alongside her, glancing at the way she bites her lip. “It would’ve been fine, I mean. Just… she never even suggested doing long-distance.” She turns to look at him, a crease etched deep into her forehead. “It’s like she decided it wasn’t even worth a _try,_ you know?”

 

He suddenly realises his thumb is stroking absently over the skin on the back of her hand. He clears his throat, hand tightening over hers.

 

“Contemporary all-relationships-suck story, then,” he remarks, eyes returning to scan the shelves.

 

She scoffs, but the sound is light and unburdened, lifting something in his chest. “Actually, I think that’s still filed under ‘classic’.”

 

They grin at each other, both their gazes breaking away after a long beat to return to the shelves.

 

“I hear you, though,” he tells her after they ease past an elderly man with a large, rounded belly in single file, hands still joined. “My ex-girlfriend, Echo — she was pretty ambitious.”

 

“How ambitious?” Clarke asks, still smiling.

 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, studiously avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know, what level of ambitious would you put ‘dumping someone because your boss tells you to’ at?”

 

A strained moment passes where he fixes his unseeing gaze firmly on the rows of self-help books.

 

He feels her hand squeeze his once, and then once more.

 

“That’s great.”

 

He whips his head round to stare at her, mouth falling open slightly. “… Huh?”

 

He’s heard _‘that sucks, bro’_. He’s gotten _‘I told you so’_. He’s also received more than a few _‘I’m sorry’s’_ (which always makes him feel doubly awkward because _how_ is it ever anyone _else’s_ fault?).

 

 _‘That’s great’_ , though? Yeah, that’s a first.

 

She shrugs, turning her piercing blue gaze on him again. “You found out before something really bad could’ve happened. At least you weren’t, you know, married. Or with a kid or anything.” She stops, and he halts in his tracks too. “Wait — you don’t have a kid, do you?”

 

His lips curve upward before he can even think about it. “No, I do not have a kid.”

 

She exhales, grinning up at him. “Wow, that could’ve gone _so_ wrong.”

 

Okay, he really has a thing for when she grins at him.

 

“Anyway,” she continues, her warm gaze holding his. “The point is: we lose things all the time. That’s just part of life.” She shrugs, sending his arm swaying with the motion. “Think of it this way — if you don’t let go of the bad shit, you’ll never have room for the good stuff.” She squeezes his hand again, swinging it up to nudge into his stomach. “You only have two hands, Bellamy. You can’t hold the entire world.”

 

He tries not to think about the way he can feel heat blossoming through his insides from the spot where she’d nudged him. He shakes his head slightly, looking away before grinning back at her. “Wow. Do you charge by the hour, or… ?”

 

She snickers, tugging him to start walking again. “Don’t worry. First one’s always free.”

 

He smiles, tightening his grip on her hand as he easily catches up to her. “Thank God. Grad students aren’t the most affluent bunch.”

 

She sighs dramatically. “I’ll just have to wait until you book the lead role in the movie adaptation of a YA trilogy. Don’t worry,” she tells him, her shoulder bumping into his upper arm. “I’ll start a tab. By the time they stretch three books into four movies, you can start paying it off.”

 

“I’ll make sure to thank you in my MTV Movie Award acceptance speech,” he responds dryly, grinning despite himself. “‘I’d like to dedicate this award to Clarke, without whom I never would’ve discovered my ardent passion for the stage and spotlight.’”

 

“‘Ardent passion’?” she repeats, arching a brow at him as they pass a middle-aged lady browsing through parenting magazines. “Oh my _God_ , Bellamy. You’re the male lead in a futuristic, dystopian movie series targeted at people _under_ the age of twenty-five. You can’t go around talking like you’re in a Brontë novel.”

 

“My bad,” he deadpans, allowing himself to be pulled to the open section towards the front of the bookstore laid out with notebooks and organisers and other stationery items. “We’ll have to work on that during future sessions, then.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes before turning to pick up a plastic-wrapped sketchpad. “I’ll make a note of it.”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, stepping closer to look over her shoulder at the sketchpad. “Though you could probably just skip the therapy and go straight to giving me acting classes, considering how long I took to catch on.”

 

She stills beside him, her grip slacking in his hand. “Um—”

 

“We just walked through the entire store,” he reminds her, keeping his tone as steady and even as he can. “There’s no other couples around.”

 

She sighs and half-steps back from him, her hand slowly working its way out of his. “No, there’s not.”

 

“Your ex was never here, was she?” he asks, closing his grip to still her moving fingers.

 

“No.” She glances up at him sharply. “But I didn’t make her up. Everything I told you about her was true, I promise.”

 

“I believe you,” he says, far sooner than he’d planned, because he really does believe her.

 

Her eyes dart between his cautiously, before dropping back down to stare at his shirt collar instead of him. “Okay, I—” she cuts herself off with a deep breath, exhaling resignedly before continuing. “I’ve seen you in here a bunch of times, and I’ve always wanted to talk to you, but I have this thing where I really suck at first impressions — not a joke, seriously, ask any of my friends — so I always find some excuse not to, but a couple days ago I finally worked up the nerve to do it but then I overheard you talking to someone on the phone—”

 

“Octavia,” he says, remembering the last time he’d been in the store. “My sister,” he explains at her questioning frown.

 

“Right.” She glances away again before looking back at him. “Anyway, I heard you saying how you, I don’t know, weren’t interested in… _meeting_ anyone now? Or something. I don’t remember the exact words.” She sighs again, still not meeting his gaze directly. “So apparently my brain decided the next best thing would be to come up with some situation to get you to basically spend a good ten, fifteen minutes with me for no real reason.” She finishes the entire sentence in one breath.

 

He stares down at her, letting the silence stretch out for a good few seconds.

 

“Wow. I feel so much better now.”

 

Her gaze snaps up to his, frowning in confusion at the smirk spreading across his face. “… Huh?”

 

He licks his lips, squeezing her hand with a grin. “My sister’s been trying to set me up for weeks now. She says I need to, uh, ‘get back on the saddle before the horse leaves me out there’.”

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose. “That’s a really terrible mix of metaphors.”

 

Bellamy smiles, waving his free hand. “She’s a… visual person.” He slowly but firmly tugs her closer, watching the way her eyes widen at the unexpected motion. “Anyway, the real reason I was trying to get her off my back was because—” a flush is steadily creeping up his neck, but he forges on determinedly, “—for the last month or so, I’ve been coming into this bookstore trying to work up the nerve to ask out this blonde girl who hangs out in the art section.”

 

She looks at him then, her sharp blue eyes landing on his with searching incredulity. She narrows her gaze at his wide smile.

 

“If this is another of your theatre practice runs,” she tells him, smiling despite her words, “I’m gonna kick your ass, Bellamy.”

 

“Grab a coffee with me and find out,” he answers smoothly — frankly, even he’s surprised. He adjusts his grip, fingers sliding into the spaces between hers to bring their palms flush against each other.

 

“Fine,” she says, gaze still narrowed warningly. The effect is entirely spoiled by her answering grin. “But I’m still charging you.”

 

“I thought the first hour was free!” he says indignantly as she tosses the sketchpad back onto the stack and pulls him towards the exit.

 

“It is,” she replies, blonde waves dancing about her face as she turns back to grin at him over her shoulder. “But who says we’re only gonna be together the one hour?”

 

“Hey, hang on a sec!” He pulls her back by their joined hands just as they make it out of the entrance of the store.

 

“Wha—”

 

The rest of her question is cut off by the press of his lips to hers. His free hand immediately curves around her head to angle her face towards his, while hers finds the front of his shirt, clasping the material just over the spot on his middle she’d nudged earlier.

 

They’re both breathless by the time they pull apart. She blinks dazedly, hand still twisted into his shirt.

 

“Sorry,” he says, already grinning unrepentantly. “Thought I saw my ex walk past just now. Wasn’t her, though. My bad.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Eighteen months later, Octavia rolls her eyes and calls them idiots for still finding every opportunity to keep up with the gag.

 

Clarke yanks Bellamy down for their third eager kiss of the night, claiming she’d just seen someone she’d previously had a one-night stand with walk into the bar.

 

Octavia shakes her head across the booth at them. “You do realise you’re actually _engaged_ now, right? As in, to be _married_?” she asks flatly, complete with an acerbic raise of her brow.

 

“You’re just jealous, O,” Bellamy says with a grin, wrapping an arm around his fiancée’s shoulders.

 

“Of _what_ ,” his sister retorts with a disbelieving frown.

 

“That you didn’t come up with the best damn pick up line in the history of man,” he tells her, feeling Clarke shake with laughter in the curve of his arm.

 

Octavia immediately pushes up from the table, announcing _‘okay well I’m going to go find my HUSBAND at the bar, freaks’_. They raise their beer bottles to her in cheeky salutes as she departs the table.

 

“I really am pretty smooth, aren’t I,” Clarke remarks, leaning into him.

 

He grins at her, warmth overflowing in his chest at the sight of her in one of his shirts, with the too-long sleeves rolled up and too-long tails knotted around her waist. He pulls her closer, pressing his lips to her temple. “You really are, princess.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it! thank you so much for reading it nonetheless =)
> 
> extra thanks if you decide to leave a kudos. extra extra thanks if you decide to leave a comment because FLAILING/DROWNING IN FLUFF SHOULD NEVER BE PERFORMED ALONE.


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